In answer, the soldier dove toward him in a sudden lunge, moving fast for such a big man.
The stranger moved faster, bending over like the branch of a young willow right into a backflip, kicking the soldier strongly under the chin in the process, knocking him a couple of steps back.
Wolfe, who’d gotten halfway to his feet to step in between the ill-matched pair, now sat back down again.
Looked like his first impression of the boy-man was correct: he was a force to be reckoned with.
Stunned, the soldier weaved slightly on his feet and swiped a hand across his face, coming away with blood from where he must have bit his tongue or cheek from the kick. He glared like an enraged bull at the boy-man, who was standing still as a statue again, just a few feet away. Hands clasped behind his back in a relaxed, casual pose.
The soldier lunged again with a roar, leading with his fists.
The stranger grabbed onto the edge of the wooden bar and swung his lower body at his aggressor’s head in a sideways arc. He caught the soldier’s trunk-like neck between his calves and twisted with the momentum of his rotating torso to flip the giant right off his feet like an overturned ox cart.
In the process, Wolfe caught brief flashes underneath the stranger’s hood.
Short, white hair and black, slashing brows. An odd, distinctive combination.
The force of the soldier’s head and shoulder colliding with the hard stone ground made even his comrades wince vicariously.
The soldier groaned and hefted himself to all fours, but didn’t seem to have the strength to rise further.
Blood was seeping copiously from the gash in his skull, and he’d no doubt have a goose egg of a bump later. He shook his head from side to side like a disoriented bear.
The stranger stepped closer, almost within arm’s length, hands behind his back again.
“If you yield, I will be merciful. If not, I’m afraid I’ll have to get tough.”
Get tough?
Wolfe wondered what constituted tougher than what he’d just witnessed.
In two effortless moves, he’d taken down a man thrice his size, using just his legs. Wolfe had never seen anyone fight like that before.
He regarded the stranger with newfound admiration.
The soldier wheezed in answer, but didn’t cease his bravado.
For he made the mistake of taunting, “Just you wait. That tight little h—.”
And that was when, faster than the eye could track, the stranger finally used his hands.
He leapt like a windmill over the soldier’s back and shaped one hand like an arrowhead, fingers pointed together, striking the back of his opponent’s neck as he flipped over the man.
Immediately, the soldier went lax upon the ground, collapsing onto his stomach. While the deadly stranger stood a few feet away again, as if he didn’t just flip over the man’s back to deal him a debilitating blow.
“Unconscious, but not dead,” he announced in that same bored voice to the room at large. “I will take what’s mine now, if you please.”
The soldier’s troop looked slack-jawed at their leader, who lay in an insensate pile upon the floor. Took a moment to react. Then abruptly leapt from their stools in concert, weapons drawn.
Wolfe and Tristan stood as well, hands going to their swords.
And that was when the tavern door slammed open a second time, the sleeting rain ushering two more strangers briskly inside.
“What? What I miss?” a tall, bedraggled, dark-haired man said, his bright turquoise eyes scanning the room.
Behind him was an even taller man, far broader as well, clearly of warrior class. Silent, observant, withdon’t-fuck-with-me-and-minewritten all over him.
“Got us supper, money, and weapons,” the boy-man said to the two newcomers, deftly retrieving the coin pouch from the inert soldier’s belt.